


Macabre

by anthonyedwardstark



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Female Sherlock Holmes, Femlock, Flashbacks, Gang Rape, Genderbending, Genderswap, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 13:49:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthonyedwardstark/pseuds/anthonyedwardstark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are called to investigate a violent sexual assault and murder. At the scene of the crime, Sherlock cannot help but recall a terrible day from her time at Cambridge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Macabre

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock is the property of the BBC, Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and is based off of the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> Please take note of archive warnings.
> 
> Check out my [Tumblr](http://anthonyedwardstark.tumblr.com/).

"Macabre," she observed as she stepped into the bedroom, dressed in the scrubs she had been handed.

"Oh, God," John said when he entered the crime scene just after Sherlock.

'You'll need these,' Lestrade had said as he held out two sets, one for her and one for John. She now understood why.

Blood was splattered across the room. The floor, the ceiling, the walls. The epicenter was the blood drenched bed with the victim tied Eagle spread to the four corner posts.

Sherlock saw in an instant. Blink. She thought through a lifetime. Breathe. She cleared her mind. Walk.

Anderson and Donovan were already in the room. Neither would look toward the bed. Lestrade was averting his eyes too.

She walked closer to the victim, stopping at the bedside and stared for a moment. No deductions or observations. Just seeing. Just knowing.

"There are tearstains on the pillow. She must have be sobbing for the pillows to still be stained," Anderson deduced from the corner of the room in an attempt to appear competent.

* * *

_A horrific, despairing moan escaped as he knelt between her legs, tears falling down her cheeks and then mixing with blood from her bitten lip._

_"Please stop," she begged. But she was ignored._

* * *

She simply 'hmm'ed before adding with an unusual lilt in her voice, "Tears are the natural reaction to an event such as this."

"Wow. Emotions are a natural reaction? Never thought I'd hear that coming from you," Donovan snidely grumbled.

"Tears are as much a physical response as an emotional one. A reaction to a pain stimulus," Sherlock said absentmindedly as she examined the bloodied stumps on the victim's hands where her fingers had once been.

* * *

_It hurt far more than she had thought it would, and for much longer. It wasn't a quick tear, but a continuous, sharp pain, growing worse with every thrust. She only screamed once though, a broken and pitiful scream when One first entered her. She bit through her lip again to keep anymore noises from escaping._

_She made a sound only two other times. The first, pleading when Two entered her just after One had finished inside her. And the second, a despairing moan and a single plea as Three took Two's place after he too had finished. By the time Four took Three's place, she was apathetic._

* * *

"One assailant. White male, 30-35 years of age, 5'10", native Londoner, Veterinary assistant, or possibly a nurse but it's not very likely," she informed the room at large.

Lestrade wrote down the deduction, pleased to have something to do besides look at the carnage.

Sherlock stood completely still at the bedside. She just stared for a moment.

"It... it's quite a disgusting feeling, blood and semen mixing on your thighs. The texture is absolutely revolting. And if you brings your legs together, your thighs slide against one another. The slickness is nearly unbearable. It may have been a small mercy, at least, that she couldn't bring her thighs together. One less violation to endure," she quietly noted.

* * *

_As soon as Four shut the door behind him, she shoved the soiled blue gown from her face and tried to pull her trousers up from around her ankles, but she couldn't do it without lifting herself up off the floor. The pain in her groin wouldn't allow it quite yet. So she brought her legs together, ankles, knees, thighs and she sobbed into the cold stone floor._

_Later, when she tried to push herself off the ground, she sobbed even more when she felt a gush of blood and_ them _dripping out, wetting her thighs, and then coagulating, sticky and obscene._

* * *

Anderson, oblivious to what everyone else in the room was beginning to recognise in Sherlock's voice, was aghast and asked, "You think it's a 'mercy' that she couldn't close her legs? God, you really are a psychopath, aren't you!"

The room was quiet.

Sherlock stared at Anderson.

* * *

_Panic, she realized. An emotion she had never felt before. It was more than worry or fear or horror. It was terror, in its truest form._

_Her body was not her own. It belonged to these men, these terrible men. They could do with it what they pleased. And no matter what she did, she couldn't stop what she knew was coming. If there had only been one of them, maybe even two, she could have fought or run. But there was her and One and Two and Three and Four._

_And it wasn't her soon-to-be rapists that terrified her. It was_ knowing _that was truly terrifying. It was being entirely aware of what they were going to do to her, what she would feel and how much it would hurt and being able to do absolutely nothing to stop it. That was what brought the terror._

* * *

She said in return, "I think, perhaps, that being bound at least soothes the mind regarding guilt for not resisting enough. When bound, there is no resistance. When there is a struggle for power and control, there is a forfeit, a submission. The illusion of strength can be maintained when you're bound. The fight isn't lost if there isn't a struggle to begin with. It's much harder to simply lose the fight for power."

John crossed his arms.

* * *

_"We already know you've got shite for tits and you don't wear girls' clothes. Always in these fucking suits and your blue fucking Caius gown! Are you even a girl? Do you have a cunt?" One demanded, his hands roughly rubbing her bared chest._

_"I say we should find out, don't you?" One asked his friends._

_Two grinned and bent to pull Sherlock's trousers down past her knees. One gripped her tighter as she struggled harder against the assault. Three and Four jeered as Two knelt down and ripped her knickers on both sides to bare her. She kicked her legs fiercely and kneed Two in the nose. One threw her to the ground._

* * *

Her gaze moved further down the wo- victim's body, seeing, observing, knowing, _understanding_. At her parted thighs, Sherlock's gaze stopped. She moved closer. Bloodstained thighs parted to reveal her abused genitals. And all ten of her missing fingers.

"Ten fingers would be very painful," Sherlock said, "The killer must have done it while she was still alive. He's a sadist. He wanted her to hurt and there's no pain for the dead. He would have cut off one finger at a time, violated her with it, then cut off another, and penetrated her with both, and so on. The first few must have gone in relatively easily. He had already penetrated her, so she would have been stretched. But after five, I think, it would have been very painful. Eight is excruciating and ten must be unimaginable."

Lestrade shifted in discomfort, awareness dawning more completely.

John's jaw clenched. He knew Sherlock would not sleep or eat. Not tonight.

* * *

_Two wrapped his hand around her throat and shoved two fingers from his other hand into her mouth. She bit them. He squeezed her throat tighter and withdrew his fingers from her mouth._

_"I was trying to be nice, bitch, but if you don't want me to, I won't," Two said and he reached down and shoved two fingers into her._

_Her jaw clenched down._

_"Oh, yeah. She's definitely a girl. A tight, frigid bitch. But, damn, she has a sweet cunt. You boys want to check too? Just to be sure," Two said._

_One grinned and shoved two fingers into her cunt alongside Two's, all the way down to the third knuckle. She let out a sharp breath through her nose. Three knelt next to her and tried to put in two more. It didn't work. He licked his own fingers and then slowly worked one in, stretching her painfully. And then he did it again. Six fingers. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. It began to bleed._

_One, Two and Three looked at Four. He rolled his eyes and huffed and then lowered himself to the ground. He put two fingers in his mouth and then tried to squeeze them inside her, but he couldn't._

_"Pull," Four told the other three._

_One, Two and Three each maneuvered their hand so that the pads of their fingers were against her walls. And then they pulled and spread her open, just enough for Four to squeeze his fingers in too._

_Her bottom lip was bleeding profusely and her breathing was ragged. A tear had escaped her eye despite her best efforts and it slid down her temple onto her ear. No noise escaped her. She wouldn't make a sound._

_"Look at that, Holmes. Turns out, not only do you have a cunt, but you have a cunt that can take eight fingers," Two informed her with a disgusting grin._

_She blinked and another tear slid down her temple._

* * *

She moved away from the victim and walked toward the foot of the bed. Her gloved fingers picked up the victim's torn pants. She examined the article, noticing and cataloging every detail.

"He wiped himself off with these after ejaculation. A form of degradation. One of many he employed," She stated.

Anderson, still unawares, asked, "How is that degrading? I mean, relative to all the other stuff he did to her, it would hardly make a difference."

Sherlock gave him a disdainful glare, "'Relative to all the other stuff?' You really are an imbecile. There is no such thing as 'relative' in regards to psychological torture. Every degradation makes an impact."

"What are you talking about? Psychological torture?! This was a sexual assault, a sexually motivated crime," Anderson exclaimed.

Sherlock just looked at him with disdain, "Do you really believe that? Truly? I worry about the fact that people like you are considered qualified to investigate crimes. This is not a crime about sex, Anderson. This is a game of power, a power play. It is about control, pain, dominance and superiority. And the quickest way to obtain power over someone is to launch a psychological attack. Degrade and shame them until they feel worthless and inferior. Then you've won the game. And rape is the ultimate degradation. You lose personhood. You're no longer a human being, but an object, a tool that someone uses to find pleasure. The basest, filthiest, most carnal of pleasures."

* * *

_Two had both of her wrists pinned to the ground with one hand and his other hand was on the back of her neck, forcing her cheek to scrape against the ancient, stone floor._

_Three stood over them, watching._

_Four stood by the door, guarding._

_One had his hands on her hips in a bruising grip, his knees between her legs on the cold ground, and his cock in her cunt._

_His breaths were coming quicker, his grip was getting tighter, and his thrusts were becoming erratic._

_He moaned. Loud and disgusting against her ear. She felt him come inside her. Sickening. He licked her ear. Revolting._

_He huffed, pushed himself up, and pulled out. Blood and cum, in her, on her, on him._

_"Give me that," One said to Three, pointing at her blue Caius gown._

_Three picked it up and handed it to One. One used the gown to wipe himself off. Blood and semen stained the fabric._

_"Look what you did to me? You're disgusting," he spoke to her as he cleaned himself. She flinched when he threw the gown at her._

_"My turn," said Two. One moved to let Two take his place._

_A strangled sob, "Please, don't!" she begged him. Begging for the first time in her life._

_"No more. Please. No more. Stop it." He entered roughly._

* * *

"Look, I know that you're a psychopath and all, but-," Anderson said.

Donovan, who comprehended her odd behaviour, interrupted him, "Shut up, Anderson."

"Me? What did I do?!" he asked incredulously.

"Just shut up. Can you just stop talking?" Donovan asked intently.

"What? Are you turning into the freak now? I'm the lead forensic officer! I read Forensics at Liverpool! That's one of the best universities for Forensics in England! I'm allowed to speak at a crime scene! I mean, does the freak even have credentials?" Anderson retorted.

"I went to Cambridge. Read chemistry. I didn't finish though," she said distractedly as she examined a portion of carpeting on the floor.

"Did you fail out of uni? Oh, that's great! That's absolutely wonderful!" Anderson replied, inappropriately gleeful.

"No. I dropped out. It was boring and I didn't like it. I never even wanted to go to university in the first place," she corrected.

"Then why did you go to Cambridge?" Donovan asked out of curiosity.

"I wasn't given a choice. I was informed that I would be attending university and Cambridge seemed to be the least horrible. My family has been attending Oxford for centuries, so naturally I thought Cambridge might be the best choice. If they were going to make me attend university, at least I could annoy them while I did it," she answered.

"Why didn't you want to go to university? I thought you would've jumped at the chance to outsmart the people that think they're the smartest," Lestrade said with a smile.

"People annoy me. And their delusions of adequacy are only entertaining for the briefest period of time. Then it just becomes an irritant, people always trying to outsmart me or one up me. And I've never liked having a curriculum or _educational requirements_. I want to know what I want to know and not what someone else thinks I need to know. Anything I have a desire to know, I can learn by myself, on my own and everything else is irrelevant," she informed them.

"How long did you stay before you quit?" Lestrade asked, trying to draw her away from the crime scene.

"I managed two years before I ran off. Actually, that's not true. I ran off several times before then, but after two years, they couldn't make me go back. Nothing could make me go back," she explained.

* * *

_"Sherlock! Be reasonable! You are more than half finished. Just one more year, darling, and you won't have to do anything else! Your trust will be released!" Mummy said._

_"I won't go back. You can't make me go," she said, her voice flat._

_The door opened. Sherlock rolled her eyes and huffed._

_"Hello, Mummy," Mycroft said as he entered and kissed Mummy on the cheek._

_"Mycroft, dear. So lovely to see you. I'm so glad you came," she greeted him._

_"Of course," Mycroft answered deferentially. Sherlock scoffed._

_He turned to his sister and glanced over her._

_"Since when do you wear makeup, sister? That's so unlike you. Have you, perhaps, finally found yourself a nice young man?" he asked condescendingly_ _._

_Her nose bunched in disgust and her lips pulled in revulsion. His gaze became more concerned than condescending. He turned to Mummy when she spoke._

_"Mycroft, perhaps you can assist me. Your dear sister insists that she will not be returning to Cambridge," she informed him._

_Mycroft's nose twitched in annoyance. Sherlock's lips twitched in pleasure at the sight of it._

_"Sherlock...," Mycroft began._

_"No," she said stubbornly, before he could even speak._

_"Really. Must you act like a child?" Mycroft asked disdainfully._

_"I'm not acting like a child! I'm acting like an adult, attempting to make my own decisions. And what I have decided is that I won't go back to university," she informed him._

_"Don't be ridiculous. Of course you're going back. You always do," Mycroft said._

_"Not this time," she replied._

_"Oh? Is that so? You would rather I maintain control of your trust fund than return to Cambridge?" he asked with an irritating air of smugness._

_"I would rather neither, but since it is either one or the other, then, yes, I would rather you have my trust fund than go back to Cambridge," she answered bitterly._

_He looked at her in confusion._

_"You're serious," he said. It wasn't a question._

_"Do you hate it there so much? Truly?" he asked._

_Sherlock didn't answer._

_"Why now? What has changed?" he asked._

_Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, bit her tongue and stared at a book shelved behind Mummy's head._

_"Has something happened?" he asked._

_She gave no sign of having heard him._

_Mummy spoke._

_"I don't have time for you insolence, Sherlock. We are all well aware, I think, of the fact that you will be going back to Cambridge. Your impertinence is accomplishing nothing, save for_ _irritating both me and Mycroft and wasting all of our time. Though that may, of course, be your goal. In which case, congratulations on your accomplishment. But the time for your games is over. It's time for you to return to Cambridge and finish your degree."_

_Sherlock's eyes flashed._

_"I am entirely serious, Mummy. And I did not come here to ask for your permission. I came to inform you so that you might save yourself the expense of another year of tuition when I shall not be attending. If you wish to ignore me and pretend that I will be an obedient daughter, then by all means, give them more of your money. It shan't bother me. But I've already decided. I ridded myself of my Caius gowns and removed my effects from my dormitory. I won't be going back," Sherlock said stubbornly._

_Then she stood up and walked toward the door of the study, but before she reached the exit, Mycroft grabbed her shoulder. She yelped and flinched away from the unexpected contact. Mycroft's eyebrows lifted in surprise._

_She continue walking as if nothing had occurred but Mycroft grabbed her hand and then pushed her sleeve up her forearm to reveal her bruised wrists. She shifted at the uninvited contact._

_"Let go of me," she demanded of him without inflection and without looking directly at him._

_He ignored her request and reached up to her neck. He pulled the high collar of her coat down to reveal her bruised neck. He gently ran a single finger across one of the bruises encircling her throat._

_Her bottom lip trembled and her voice wavered when she begged for the second time in her life._

_"Please let me go."_

_Mycroft's eyes widened and he immediately ceased touching her._

_She turned back to the door and walked out of the study._

* * *

"Why couldn't they make you go back?" Donovan wondered.

Sherlock averted her eyes and turned to face the blood-covered wall.

"Bas-... Based on the angle of blood spatter, I'd say the assailant is 5' 10"," she deduced.

"You've already said that," Anderson commented as John gave her a worried glance.

"Are you okay?" he asked quietly.

"I'm fine!" she told him brusquely.

He approached her and placed his hand on her shoulder. She spun around almost faster than he had thought possible and grabbed his wrist.

"Don't touch me!"

He instantly backed away from her and put both of his hands up in a nonthreatening manner.

"Sherlock?" he asked gently.

"What?" she spat out in reply.

"I think that we need to go."

"Go where?"

"Back to Baker St."

"I already told you, I'm fine."

"Sherlock."

"What?!"

"Your hands are shaking."

"Yes, I am aware! Must you state the obvious, John?! It's ever so tiresome."

"Sherlock, you've given us enough to go on with the profile. I think, maybe John is right. You should go home, relax. We'll call you if we need anything else," Lestrade said.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded. She and John walked to the door and left. When they got outside, John rook off his scrubs, and Sherlock attempted to as well, but her hands were trembling so much that she could not unzip.

"Here, let me," John said as he reached to help her unzip. She stepped back.

"I'm fine, John! I can manage unzipping myself. Believe it or not, I have managed to dress myself for the last thirty years," she replied fiercely.

John only nodded and assumed parade rest.

The officers at the scene all watched the trembling detective surreptitiously but made no comment to Sherlock.

It took her half a minute to divest. When she and John walked to the road to find a cab, there was already an expensive, black car waiting for them.

John moved to get in, but Sherlock shook her head.

"No. Just not... no," she said. John nodded once.

Sherlock hailed a cab and she and John went back to Baker St. She exited the cab and climbed up the stairs. She walked into the flat, directly to their bedroom and locked the door. John paid the cabbie and walked into the flat where he sat in his chair and ran his hands through his short hair.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile. He considered for a moment and then sent a text to Lestrade.

_maybe some warning next time. when its that violent._

He put down the mobile and rested his head against his hands.

His mobile beeped.

_will do. Sorry. Tell her for me._

He typed out a reply.

_she wont want to hear it. just catch him._

There was a longer pause before Lestrade responded.

_I'll try._

There was nothing more to say.

Sherlock stayed in their bedroom through the night and John remained in his chair. Neither of them slept. In the morning, Sherlock left the bedroom and threw herself on the couch.

"Tea?" she asked.

John looked up from his newspaper and stared at her for a moment.

"Of course," he said and then stood and walked to the kitchen to prepare two cups of tea.

the end


End file.
